I wasn’t connecting with last night’s Reservation Dogs, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed relevant in my life.
I was not a Reservation Dog. To my young Native and Mvskoke Creek friends who were, and lived in a rural community in McIntosh County, I was probably thought of as an outsider. They had endured conflicts and experienced day-to-day issues I couldn’t imagine. My elder parents, who had endured enough conflict in their own lives, sheltered me from a lot of pain.
I think my Rez Dog friends realized this and kept me at a distance. But they still shared their lives with me likely as a means of helping me understand the differences. I was intrigued by my friends, but they probably studied me, too. My school was six miles away from the 160-acre homestead we’d had before statehood. My mother routinely ran off my friends after I invited them over, telling them privately they should not get me involved with them. She and her husband, who had adopted me off a Wisconsin reservation when I was an infant, went out of their way to keep me out of trouble.
How did my life become closer to my Mvskoke culture? Regrettably, in my case, not through my friends. To them, I was more of an observer than a participant. My introduction to my connection with Native relatives and friends came decades later when I learned more about my own family roots.
To recap: The Cummings family was forced out of Alabama and moved to Indian Territory in the Trails of Tears era. My grandfather, who journeyed with his mother to Indian Territory, created quite the life in Oklahoma, having success as a pastor, a rancher, and a businessman. Through research, I learned about his work with the U.S. government in distributing allotments to other tribal members. He also worked within tribal government as a leader. He made a difference. He did things for the displaced Mvskoke Nation when few would. My father, a war hero, was a mekko for a ceremonial ground and fluent in our tribal language. I should have paid better attention to him and learned more about the Cummings family.
In the latest episode, Willie Jack was able to get in touch with past generations for spiritual guidance. I had no idea I had that kind of connection. I’m sure it would have been tough to comprehend this. I wish my parents had been more forthcoming about their cultural backgrounds.
Don’t get me wrong: I had the support system of my own local Rez Dogs, but I didn’t understand nor empathize with them like I should have. I regret that. Watching Reservation Dogs on TV made me realize I wasn’t there for them, not because I didn’t want to be, but because I didn’t understand. When things got real, I could quickly retreat from a harsh environment, which was actually six miles away, and back into a life that was more sheltered.
I greatly valued friendship with my friends. I won a small academic scholarship in high school. My friends rushed to congratulate me, which felt good. My mother, who cultivated my arrogance because she knew I would need it throughout life, said any academic rewards should be expected not celebrated. (I’m not sure that was healthy, but she had “boarding-school” cred, and I didn’t.)
Thanks to Sterlin Harjo’s writing staff, I’m beginning to see where I fell short as a friend. I saw glances of my life in previous Reservation Dogs episodes, but after last night I see now that I wasn’t as immersed as I’d thought, or should have been.